


death is a four letter word

by benvolio



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen, everything about his death said he died 'in agony' so sorry, pain and suffering and agony oh my!, the events of 23 november 1801, the events of 24 november 1801
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:37:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5273345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benvolio/pseuds/benvolio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On 20 November 1801, 19-year-old Philip Hamilton quarreled with 27-year-old lawyer George Eacker in a public theatre.</p><p>On 23 November 1801, 19-year-old Philip Hamilton dueled 27-year-old lawyer George Eacker in Weehawken, New Jersey.</p><p>On 24 November 1801, 19-year old Philip Hamilton died in agony, clutching frantically at his parents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	death is a four letter word

**Author's Note:**

> "Nothing in his life  
> Became him like the leaving it. He died  
> As one that had been studied in his death  
> To throw away the dearest thing he owed  
> As ’twere a careless trifle."
> 
> -Macbeth, Act 1, Scene 4

He counted his steps carefully.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Ten. Ten. Turn around. Turn around. Turn around!

George Eacker, twenty paces away. Hand hovering over his gun. Tradition meant Philip shot first. His hand shook. He didn't want to hurt anybody. He didn't want to kill. He didn't want to have that hanging over him. Over his mother. Over his family.

_Be smart._

Philip swallowed hard. Delope. Delope, Philip, delope. Throw your shot away. All it meant was that Eacker had to shoot first. Price had told Philip his aim was terrible. It would be fine. Eacker got to shoot first, and then this would all be over. They could go home.

Philip's finger quivered on the trigger.

_Make me proud, son._

Neither of them moved. Philip held his head high. They stood in silence, staring at each other for a full minute. No one moved. No one breathed. Was Eacker going to shoot? Why was he hesitating? Was this a duel or not?

Philip was holding a gun that had killed before. The war wasn't news. Hamilton had told the stories, and he’d heard a few from other people. Things like, “your father could shoot a redcoat from across a field, and it would still strike him right in the heart.” Philip was his son. His son! It ran in the family. Right? He had to make his father proud.

One shot, that was it. One shot.

Maybe that was why Philip leveled his gun towards George Eacker.

He didn't move. He didn't shoot. Eacker did.

A shot rang out. Philip pulled the trigger, his shot firing wildly into the distance.

The ground was rushing up towards him. It felt too hard, too harsh, too forceful. Someone yelled. Something wet was dripping down his side.

It wasn't until a moment later, when Philip realized he'd been shot, that the pain set in. There were hands on him, grabbing him, pressing on his hip. Spots formed behind his eyes. Someone screamed, loud and blood-curdling.

It wasn't until Philip's jaw began to ache that he realized it was him. 

•••

Everything was dark. Why was it so dark? Where was the light? It was dark, and Philip was gasping in pain. He thought there was supposed to be light. Where was the light?

"Where's my son? Can I see him, please?"

The voice was muffled and desperate and too far away. Philip knew it immediately. He knew his father's voice. A wave of shame crashed over him. He'd failed.

He didn't want his father to see him like that, like a failure.

"Philip? Philip! Oh, Philip."

Turns out, what he wanted didn't matter.

"Pa, I'm sorry, Pa. I'm sorry." It sounded weak and broken even to him. "I tried to do you right."

"You always did what was right. It's okay. You're going to be okay." He took Philip’s pulse, face close to his, looking for any sign that what he was saying could possibly be true. Philip could barely see his father in the candlelight, but he knew neither of them were convinced. "He's going to be okay, right?"

The doctor said nothing.

Philip’s father stood up and clutched the doctor’s hands tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. He took in a shaky breath. “Doctor, I despair.” There was so much grief in his voice, Philip forgot he hadn’t died yet.

They sat in silence a while longer. Philip's whole side was burning. It felt like his flesh was rotting off his body while he was still alive. The world was cold. The room was cold. November in New England was always cold. Philip was still covered in a sheet of sweat, his shirts in a pile on the floor.

For a few minutes, Philip wished he was already dead.

"No, let me in! That's my son! Let me in! Let me in!"

Philip knew that voice, too. "Ma! Ma!" He struggled to sit up, howling as his whole body protested.

"Young man, stop moving. You're reopening the wound." The doctor's hands were cold, pressing Philip back down.

Philip could barely see his father's face in the candlelight, but he knew the look of pain there.

It wasn't his father's fault he wasn't home very often. It was work. Philip knew that. He understood. It was okay. He and his father were close. Every week at college, Philip would receive a letter from his father. A reminder to study hard and change the world. But his father wasn't around. Not the way his mother was.

It wasn't his father's fault he wasn't home very often. It wasn't Philip's fault he cared about his mother more.

"Ma, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Ma."

She stroked his hair, gently pushing back the strands that stuck to his forehead. She was pregnant. Just barely starting to show. Philip didn’t want to cause any sort of stress. There was already the fear of a miscarriage from her illness a month ago.

"If I could, I'd take it back. I swear, Ma. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you or anyone."

Eliza kissed him on the forehead. "Shh. I know."

And somehow, those two little words made Philip feel better.

•••

“I have to change his bandages.” The doctor even spoke softly, as though under the impression if he did anything too loudly, something would break.

Philip’s parents nodded and stood up. Eliza left her hand lingering on Philip’s for a moment too long.

The two stood in the corner of the room, not far away.  They spoke in hushed whispers. There was nothing like death to bring two people together. His father, the one who had the affair with that woman. The one who broke his mother’s heart. Philip didn’t know why his father had to do such a thing, but he knew he hated seeing his mother in so much pain. And he hated seeing his parents avoid each other.

Hushed whispers were better than nothing.

In the corner of the room, Eliza wiped at her eyes. She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t let Philip see her cry. Her oldest son, her first. She was always strong for him. Now all she had to do was hold on a little longer.

The doctor carefully removed the bandage, deft fingers barely brushing against his skin. Philip still cried out, hips bucking out of his control. Everything hurt and hurt and hurt and he wanted it to stop hurting.

In the corner of the room, Alexander wrapped his arms around Eliza. She tensed up, shoulders nearly reaching her ears. He touched her softly, carefully, knowing she was wounded and the wrong move would send her running. He touched her like he still loved her.

Eliza buried her face in his chest, letting herself sob. Alexander rested a cheek on her hair, closing his eyes.

Philip could still hear her muffled cries over his own. The doctor kept working.

•••

Philip didn’t know how much time had passed. Things weren’t making sense. His eyes wheeled frantically, trying to find something he could hold on to. Something to keep him anchored in this world. The doctor had given him enough painkillers to manage through the night. It wasn’t enough to allow him sleep, but at least he wasn’t crying out anymore.

Sometime in the late night - at least, Philip assumed it was night - Philip realized his father was asleep.

“Ma.” He kept his voice low, not wanting to wake her. They were all stressed and in pain. And with a child on the way, Eliza needed as much sleep as she could get.

She squeezed his hand. “I’m here, Philip.”

“Ma, promise me.” She waited, but he didn’t continue.

“Promise you what? Anything.”

“Promise me you’ll forgive him. Pa.”

Eliza was silent for a long time. Philip thought she may have fallen asleep.

“I will try.”

Philip didn’t know if she actually whispered those words to him or if he imagined them, a result of the alcohol and medicines coursing through his system.

•••

Nothing made any sense. Nothing made any sense. Nothing made any sense.

Philip made his peace with the world. With God. His father rarely prayed, but Philip had seen him earlier with his hands clasped, murmuring something under his breath.

Now all he had to do was say goodbye to his family. There were too many people there. The room felt too hot. Multiple people were sobbing. Eliza was not. Philip focused on his mother. It was easier to focus on his mother.

"T- tell Angelica... to keep playing the piano." Words were hard. He wanted to scream. But he didn't know how long he could keep talking, and there were things he needed his family to know.

Eliza smiled. Softly, sadly. "You can tell her yourself, when you get home." Her hand rested on his chest, rising and falling too rapidly and too irregularly, heartbeat heavier than footfalls. Philip wound his fingers through hers.

Philip tried to smile. His lips felt dry. Home. "You taught me piano. Remember? I was a boy. You would put your hands on mine."

"I know. I remember."

Alexander sat in silence on the other side of the bed, hand in Philip's hand. He didn't know. He didn't remember. Philip clutched his father’s hand as tightly as he could.

"I taught Angelica. You don't know. I taught her... the wrong tune."

She smiled, something real. Good. Philip's plan was working. "The one you used to play?"

"The one I used to play."

Quietly enough that Philip had to strain to hear it, she began to hum. "Un, deux, trois, quatre..."

"Cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf..."

"Good. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq..."

"Six, sept..."

"...huit, neuf." She froze. "Sept, huit, neuf. Philip? Sept, huit..."

Beneath her hands, his chest rose and fell. She could feel him exhale shakily.

 **  
** Eliza sat by his side for hours. He didn’t inhale.

**Author's Note:**

> References:  
> http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/style/longterm/books/chap1/duel.htm  
> Ron Chernow's biography of Hamilton. You know the one.


End file.
